


Nine Year Gift

by Neffectual



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Baron Samedi - Freeform, Dark Month, M/M, Vodou
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-18
Updated: 2012-10-18
Packaged: 2017-11-16 14:02:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neffectual/pseuds/Neffectual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mardi Gras is when all the spirits come out to play.  Prompt from the KH Dark Month 2012, for 'Voodoo/Baron Samedi'. I hope I did it justice.  Written for Day 18.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nine Year Gift

He spends his days with his shirt off, moving rubble, building and rebuilding buildings, schools, whatever he can find, whatever he’s pointed at to do. It’s not his first stint over in another country, helping after a disaster, nor, he expects, will it be his last. But Haiti is where he returns to, time after time, and not just because they need the most aid. It calls to his soul in a way that nowhere else does, and he doesn’t know whether that’s the rum, the spirit of the people, or something deeper than that. He does know that he has not missed a Mardi Gras since he was fourteen, and that has to mean something.

It’s the religion, too, he reflects as he kohls his eyes a little for the night – he’s pale, too pale, and blue eyes and blond hair are a talking point here, so he lines his eyes to make them stand out, knowing the children love it. Vodou is not the Louisiana voodoo or hoodoo, all gris-gris and threat, shapes on the floor which remind him of what old-fashioned witchcraft was supposed to be, all sacred circles and sticking pins in people. Louisiana voodoo has more life in it, that seems to be the key – whereas Haiti is all about death. Those who _sèvis loa_ are mysterious, hidden, secretive, and it is unusual for those who merely visit to ever see them properly. But Roxas has. Roxas knows these people, has built their houses, has cared for their children, is treated as one of their own. And it all comes down to that Mardi Gras, that night, nine years ago.

The man was pale, he remembers that, not pale like he is, but pale like death, cheekbones standing out against skin, and his hair shone red in the moonlight, bright-lit and the colour of blood. His black suit was traditional mourning clothing, as most wore this night, and he smoked a thin cigar, a shot of rum in the other hand, gesticulating wildly as he talked. Everyone around listened, even his parents, Roxas saw, and so he listened, too, hiding in the shadows to avoid being seen and told to go to bed. A silk top hat lay on the bar next to the man, the colour of midnight, and his eyes were hidden by sunglasses, which fourteen-year-old Roxas saw as pretentious. The moment that thought crossed his mind, the man looked up, directly at him, and crossed through the crowd of listeners to kneel before him.  
“What about Maman?” someone giggled in the crowed, and Roxas wanted to look and see what his parents’ faces were telling him to do, but instead found himself captivated by this strange figure, bony and over-bright, in front of him.  
“Ah, Maman knows better.” The man purred, his voice a rough rasp of rum and tobacco, and laughed a throaty laugh, “But perhaps the little one should go back to bed before he sees something he shouldn’t, hm?”  
His parents rushed forwards to take Roxas back to bed, and he didn’t fight them. But he had dreams of that figure for the next week, that man and shapeless shadows dancing in the darkness, and laughing.

Mardi Gras alone, once he had been eighteen and decreed old enough to support whatever humanitarian projects he chose, had been a very different experience, as he lay with woman after woman, rum-fuelled and laughing. The maidens of the town did not stay maidens long, and truly, he was lucky that he remembered who was of high standing and stepped around them, or he might have found himself in a delicate situation. The servants of the loa smiled at him, the little white boy running through their celebration and yet behaving as if one of the spirits has hijacked him. He was a perfect fit for where he was, and then, out of nowhere, the redheaded man had swept him up and danced with him in the town square, sliding and grinding against him, every act a sensual pantomime of what two people could do together. The man was powerful, shouting to the wind which rushed around them, and the press of people gathered close made Roxas feel like the centre of a hurricane. As for what came after, well – there were no Catholic Haitians at this hour of the carnival, this was given over to those of vodou, and he was glad of that – the man had covered him fully when they were naked, their skin sliding over each other, uniformly pale. The redhead had been cold everywhere Roxas had pressed kisses to him, but that had stopped neither of them.

Since that night, he had been the chosen, among the village, who were prone to naming those aid workers who stuck around, instead of putting in their requisite three months then flitting back off to their opulent houses, safe in the knowledge that they had Done Something for the ‘poor people’ they left behind. Roxas was the chosen, and he did not wonder if this meant chosen by the people, or chosen by the redheaded man. When he asked about him, the old women of the village would cackle toothlessly and wave towards their shrines, wrapped in rum and tobacco, as if telling him to pray to the loa to ask for answers. He was not above doing so, but something about the Guédé always gave him the creeps, something about rolling birth and death all into one ball seemed wrong, although, he supposed, no more wrong than death and resurrection in Christian religion. When you looked at it that way, it made a lot of sense, or at least, as much as any religion ever did. At least with vodou, you could get a good drink, smoke and fuck out of it.

This year felt different, twenty-three and still alone, still working overseas wherever he could, in the knowledge that his work would never be done, would never be complete. He was no longer young enough or foolish enough to believe that he could fix the wrongs in the world, no longer naïve and precious. He had seen death, destruction, had people beg him to finish them off, to sacrifice their souls to the spirits, and in some cases, he had done so, when he knew there was no hop of survival. Mardi Gras is coming, and he knows, somehow, that this will be the last one he spends here, in this little village which becomes, for this festival, a flood of people writhing with the dance and the drink and the loa. He will not come here again, not after this time – he is done with this futile quest to achieve something with other people, will go home and start college like he should have done five years ago. He will finally write to his parents and tell them he is still alive, still working, and that he is ready to come home. The air smells of tobacco smoke, summoning the loa, and the rum is flowing freely when he steps down into the village. An old woman whispers.  
“The chosen.” She says, reverently.  
“Not chosen.” He replies, walking on. Tonight, he does not feel as if he was chosen for anything other than bad decisions.

Then he sees him. Long, fire-brand red hair, slicked down under a black silk top hat, his mourning dress glittering like a magpie’s prize, and his eyes hidden behind those dark glasses. His skin shines brighter than the moonlight, and if anything, he looks thinner, more pale, more drawn, than before. He is cackling in a crowd of young women, all eyeing him like he is a piece of meat, once more, a shot of rum in one hand, a thin cigar hanging from his lips as he waves his arms to the air, telling a joke which requires lewd gesticulations which Roxas would not dare do in front of these young women. But this man does not wear the look of a man who fears anything.  
“The chosen.” One of the girls in the crowd hisses, spotting him, and the redhead freezes, pausing in his frenetic movement.  
“Not tonight.” He says, at last, and that voice is just as he remembers it, throaty and dark with spiced rum and rich tobacco, “He can not be here tonight.”  
“Nine years.” Another girl whispers, and they draw back, leaving a clear path between Roxas and the redhead. Roxas takes a step, and then another, and before he knows it, he is in front of the redhead, sinking to his knees.

The crowd could be there, they could be gone; he cares not as he unfastens sleek black mourning trousers, sliding his mouth over the crown of the cock which is revealed, flushed blood-red in contrast to the marble paleness elsewhere. Bony fingers slide into his hair and grip as he sucks, putting his years of practice into everything. He has one chance to impress, he knows this, one chance to do this, and he will do it to the best of his ability. When the man above him comes, he tastes thick, earthy, rich, and Roxas coughs with it, drawing away. The redhead opens his eyes – such green eyes, when did the glasses fall away? – and looks at him.  
“You should not have come here tonight.” He says, quietly, “I gave you every chance.”  
Roxas shakes his head.  
“I could not stay away from you.” He states, plainly, “I would not want to.”  
“Baron!” a man calls, laughing, then pauses as he draws near.  
“I said no interruptions.” The redhead snarls, and his face seems to hollow more, become skull-like and fearsome for a second, and the other man cackles.  
“Ah, Baron, what will Brigitte say?”  
Roxas redresses the man above him, and stands, allows himself to be drawn into an embrace. The Baron smells like earth – grave dirt, and Roxas should know, he has dug enough – and yet, that scent is comfortable.  
“She will say that none can speak to the Baron one to one and live.” The redhead says, softly, stroking Roxas’ hair, “She will say that I was a fool to keep this one alive so long, to let nine years drain my power like this.”  
Roxas leans up to kiss him, once more, the last time he will taste lips other than his own, and clings to Baron Samedi as the world fades away.


End file.
